


The Triumvirate of Vengeance

by StarlightAsteria



Series: The Sun is Waning [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Astoria is heartbroken, Harry Potter Next Generation, Lucius and Narcissa are the pater- and materfamilias, Lucius is the best grandfather, Magic Is Sentient, Malfoy children stick together, Phoebe is six, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Pureblood Society, The Sun is Waning-verse, accidental magic, manners maketh magus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: The Lady Phoebe Malfoy is only six when she meets the woman who tore her family apart for the first time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Everyone!
> 
> Welcome to this second vignette of The Sun is Waning-verse. You might want to read Part One of this - Persian Roses - but hopefully this works as a standalone piece as well. I do hope you enjoy this, and as always, any comments / concrit you might have would be much appreciated. And yes, I will update The Lady Lancelot and To Spare Him Nothing very soon; new chapters for those should be up by the end of the month.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Triumvirate of Vengeance

 

* * *

 

 

The Lady Phoebe Malfoy is only six when she meets the woman who tore her family apart for the first time. It is a clear summer afternoon and Scorpius and Apollo are teaching her flying changes on her elegant Welsh pony Felix in the Wiltshire grounds of Malfoy Manor, the children’s bodyguard-cum-valet-cum-tutor Edmund following them on his own Thoroughbred, giving them privacy, but keeping a watchful eye on them all the same.

 

She doesn’t feel so little when she rides; she can keep up with her elder brothers much better on horseback than on foot - Apollo is three years older than her, and at nine years old is already rather fond of his new Connemara, an energetic, mischievous bay with a fondness for throwing him in the lake. And Scorpius at twelve is another matter entirely - for one thing, he’s been Lord Malfoy since Phoebe was born, and it shows in his poised demeanour and eloquent way of speaking. He’s had to grow up much faster than his peers, and though he is unfailingly kind and generous to his younger siblings, she cannot help but worship him a little. And now, as he easily controls his black Arabian at the same time as using a schooling whip to reinforce the commands Phoebe gives Felix, he certainly is both Lord Malfoy and her brother.

 

“Well done, Phoebe!” 

 

She clutches at Felix’s white mane as she feels her pony finally do the exercise correctly, lithe body powerful, and the sensation is a bit like hovering in the air at the same time as leaping forwards. “Do you feel that?” Scorpius asks her. 

 

She nods in reply, a grin threatening to spilt her face in two. 

 

Apollo has just opened his mouth to suggest a race back through the grounds to the grand old house first built at the time of the Norman Conquest that commands the whole valley, sitting between two hills, surrounded by formal gardens on all four sides, with the lake separating the parterres from the parkland, and the woods creeping up the hillsides, when one of their grandfather the _paterfamilias’s_ equerries ride up to Edmund, clad in the forest green Malfoy livery. 

 

Scorpius silences Apollo with a single, smooth gesture of his left gloved hand and all three whirl their mounts around. The equerry is still talking to their retainer but they are too far to hear the exact words, (it has been made abundantly clear by the members of House Malfoy that are of age that Scorpius is not to be disturbed when he is with his siblings) but it is apparent even to Phoebe that their grandfather’s news has taken Edmund by surprise.

 

Scorpius sets his horse into a smooth canter with an elegant flourish, knowing without looking that Apollo and Phoebe will follow him _(the children of House Malfoy stick together),_ making short work of the length of the field, the wind gently caressing the children’s faces, and sliding to an easy halt upon reaching his valet and the equerry.

 

“Your Lordship,” the equerry bows from the saddle. 

 

“What says my grandfather, Morton?” Scorpius asks, his responsibilities apparent in the set of his mien and the timbre of his voice - still youthful, but effortlessly authoritative and grave. 

 

“His Grace your grandfather the Duke has an unexpected … guest, and would request your presence in the maze courtyard.” Phoebe doesn’t miss the intonation Morton gives the word, and exchanges an uneasy glance with Apollo. 

 

This is unexpected, and Scorpius raises an eyebrow in an expression eerily reminiscent of his grandparents. “Indeed - you may tell His Grace that we will make our return to the house now.”

 

“Of course, your Lordship.” He bows again and turns his horse around, riding back down the slope, and Scorpius quickly turns to Edmund.

 

“Who is this… guest?”

 

“Hermione Granger,” Edmund replies eventually.

 

“I see.” Scorpius clips his vowels, and Phoebe sees Apollo stiffen in the saddle beside her. She’s never heard the name, and Granger isn’t a wizarding name, but her brothers would not react in the way -

 

Oh. _Oh._ It’s her. That woman.

 

It’s why Mama hardly ever leaves the Malfoy estates, unless visiting Aunt Daphne and Uncle Theo, or the Greengrass grandparents. It’s why Scorpius, still a child, wears the Lord Malfoy pendant, a diamond the size of Phoebe’s fists set in silver, and with seven further silver and emerald-set disks hanging around the chain, over his white riding doublet, and even over his Hogwarts robes. It’s why Scorpius spends his holidays talking to other Lords of the Wizengamot with the _paterfamilias_ instead of playing Quidditch with her and Apollo and Edmund. Of course, she’s not yet allowed a full-size broom, but even so. 

 

“By Morgana, what is she doing _here?_ ” Apollo snarls. 

 

“I can’t think of anything that would draw her here, uninvited.” Scorpius replies, and Phoebe flinches at the ice in her eldest brother’s tone.

 

“ _Pater_ and _mater_ would never let us be so rude.” She says, baffled. She doesn’t understand. _Pater_ and _mater,_ and Mama too, for that matter keep telling her that _manners maketh magus._ She has to walk around the library with the _Encyclopaedia Magica Britannica volume IV_ on her head every morning after breakfast (sometimes it’s Arbuthnot Selwyn’s _Lives of the Ancient and Noble Houses_ which she hates with a passion because it’s so heavy) reciting her Latin, Greek and Anglo-Norman conjugations under Edmund’s watchful eye to teach her the ramrod, elegant posture that is one of the hallmarks of a Pureblood, traditionalist upbringing. Apollo has started Linear B, Akkadian and Ancient Egyptian, and she’s really rather jealous of the fact that Edmund and the _materfamilias_ take him on trips to Alexandria, Petra and Mycenae. But she’s already been to Athens and Delphi and Sicily _and_ Rome to have a look at various inscriptions (Edmund and the _materfamilias_ bought her an ice-cream in Rome for every temple she got right) so she isn’t doing too badly for a six year old, she thinks. 

 

Scorpius, in his lighter moments, casts the _sonorus_ charm on himself and acts out bits from the _Prose Edda_ or _Beowulf_ because he can speak both Old Icelandic and Anglo-Saxon (but that really only happens because he can’t stand the endless games of chess on Yule afternoon, and it invariably occurs just as she’s within a hairsbreadth of putting the _paterfamilias_ in check). 

 

“Indeed,” Scorpius returns, a hint of amusement flickering at the left corner of his mouth. “Then again, Phoebe, not everyone has the privilege of such extensive lessons. We must make some allowances, surely.” He continues in such a voice, exaggerating his accent in such a way that Phoebe knows he’s not being entirely serious, but she continues to frown her disagreement. Surely everyone should be held to the same standard of behaviour? Hermione Granger might be Muggleborn, but that’s no excuse. In Rome Phoebe had to say _buongiorno_ instead of _good day to you_ , but that was only to be expected - it was a different culture after all. It strikes Phoebe then that perhaps Hermione Granger never exerted herself to learn the wizarding courtesies, and something uncomfortable and heavy settles firmly in her stomach. 

 

“Well,” she replies, tossing her head with as much haughtiness as she can summon, “I won’t.” That makes her brothers laugh, and she smiles, pleased. Apollo attempts to pat her shoulder, but she sees him coming, and nudges her right heel so Felix sidesteps neatly away and out of reach. 

 

“Right, let’s go and find out what all this is about - ” Scorpius starts, turning the Arabian back towards the house.

 

“And kick her off our land.” Apollo finishes. 

 

“Now, now, dear brother, we must remember that not everyone is so fortunate as to own forty thousand acres.” Scorpius rejoins with a smirk. It’s a rebuke, but it isn’t really, Phoebe can tell - because Scorpius is furious, even though he’s attempting to hide it. There’s a particular bite to his words, a particular tenseness to his jaw that belies his apparent nonchalance. 

 

“Might I also suggest, my lord, that judgement be reserved until one is in full possession of the facts.” Edmund interjects softly, but with the calm authority all three Malfoy children respect him for. He is probably the only one of their staff allowed such informal conversation, apart from the _paterfamilias’s_ butler and valet Evelyn Hobbs and the housekeeper Amabel Lirian, whom they often addressed as Mrs Lulu. 

 

“Yes,” Scorpius replies tersely, and nudges his horse into motion. 

 

The quartet canter along the grass, avoiding the hedges and stiles because Phoebe isn’t old enough to jump them yet, so they make slightly slower progress back to the house, but the detour means they go down the glorious alley of oaks planted seven hundred years ago, each tree encircled by white and golden roses, which is one of Phoebe’s favourite parts of the park, and where her family first led her out on a leading rein for her very first riding lesson, Scorpius leading on foot and _pater_ and _mater_ each holding one of her legs to make sure she didn’t fall, Apollo riding with Edmund, and Mama had even joined them for the outing and for the subsequent picnic on the lawn next to the lake, gliding elegantly along, a wreath of spring flowers on her head. 

 

Mama takes her daily walks and rides with Edmund now, so Phoebe makes more wreaths. She picks the daffodils that grow under the magnolia trees in the meadow where there are often unicorns in spring. In summer she delicately snips roses from the Persian gardens on the west side of the house, and in autumn she takes the oak leaves, living green and orange-gold as the sun and burgundy as wine and weaves them all together. When it snows she makes Mama pine wreaths with holly berries and _pater_ charms them so the snow doesn’t melt off. Her grandfather helps her, every day, without fail, except when he must attend to estate and political affairs, and then the _materfamilias_ helps her. 

 

Half an hour later the Malfoy children and their tutor clatter into the courtyard, one of the ones on the entrance side of the house, flanked by the house on one side, stone walls on the two perpendicular to the manse, with gated archways leading to the gardens proper and the fourth leading through an archway to the main drive. Called the maze courtyard because of the foot-high Flutterby bushes planted to form a maze, with a statue and fountain of Eros in the middle, it is as beautiful as it is deadly, as the Flutterby bushes ensnare the unwary, those uninvited guests or threats to the Malfoy hosts, before they have even crossed the threshold. Indeed, let it never be said that the Malfoys violate the laws of guest-friendship. 

 

The sight that greets them is so unlike anything Phoebe has ever seen that she stops Felix suddenly. Her pony tosses his head in annoyance, but is quickly soothed by her left hand stroking his neck. The _paterfamilias_ stands next to the fountain, clad in what Phoebe instantly recognises as his duelling robes from when trains his grandchildren (Phoebe and Apollo don’t have wands yet, of course, but nothing prevents them from learning the forms) - black trousers and knee-high black dragonskin boots, white doublet studded with tiny, teardrop emeralds and silver fastenings, and a short Malfoy-green elf-woven velvet cloak that ends at the waist, hair tied back with a green ribbon into a queue - talking to a woman with unruly chestnut brown hair in the oddest clothing Phoebe has ever seen. Apart from the fact that it is clearly _Muggle -_ some sort of blue trousers that cling to the entire leg in a manner both Mama _and_ the _materfamilias_ would certainly call most indecorous, open-toed sandals that look as though they are made of rough rope - really, Muggles are strange - and a ruffled, diaphanous blouse that leaves the woman’s shoulders and neck bare. 

 

It is rather a warm day, Phoebe supposes, but this is why one wears silk or linen. And the woman’s hair - even at her young age Phoebe knows that a witch’s hair can only ever be down in the presence of family. Not even the human Malfoy staff are permitted to brush Phoebe’s hair - that privilege belongs to the rest of her House or her house-elf Lala. To be in public with your hair down indicates one is rather a dubious witch - she isn’t supposed to know this, of course, but she overheard Mama and _mater_ talking to Scorpius about it before he went off to Hogwarts last year, saying that he must not take the offence personally - Muggleborns these days are unlikely to read books explaining that only if one sells their body does one have their hair down in public in Wizarding Europe. It is of course the height of vulgarity and insult to proposition either married or underage wizards, and indicates that the witch thinks the wizard of a base enough character to indulge in such an unsavoury, not to mention illegal practice if one is underage. To touch a witch’s hair is akin to holding her wand, a most intimate thing. 

 

This time it is Scorpius who growls under his breath and urges his horse closer, calling out as he does so, “Pater!”

 

Their grandfather turns, as does the woman, at their approach. Lucius Malfoy’s silver eyes glint with approval _(it fills all three Malfoy children with warmth)_ , whilst the woman’s boring brown ones show nothing but curious disgust. Unsettled by this show of hostility, but safe in the knowledge that this is her land, her home and that she is loved by all who live here, that she honours her house in her smart navy and gold embroidered riding habit, that she has not one hair out of place ( _hair charms truly are the best invention)_ she dismounts from Felix like a dainty fairy and runs straight into her grandfather’s arms, linking her little hands around _pater’s_ torso, burrowing her head into his chest and feeling his arms coming around her to hold her against him. 

 

Phoebe smiles and looks up at her grandfather. “Pater, pater,” she trills. “I finally did the flying change with Felix this afternoon!”

 

A pleased smile flits across her grandfather’s face as he looks over her at her brothers for confirmation. They are still mounted, she knows, and Apollo has easily caught Felix’s reins, Edmund halted ten paces behind them, and ready to dismount and lead all the mounts away and back to the stables should that prove necessary. 

 

“Excellent, Phoebe,” the _paterfamilias_ replies warmly. “I think we’ll start you on hieroglyphic scripts next week then - how do Egyptian and Minoan Linear A sound?” She does not know it, of course, but the woman is very shocked to see Lucius Malfoy acting in such a manner, something that is not missed by any of the Malfoy men, and a grim sense of satisfaction flows through them. By Morgana, Malfoys are Slytherins, and they will use each and every weapon they have.

 

“Does that mean I get to go to Alexandria and Luxor and Crete as well?”

 

“Of course it does,” comes the indulgent reply.

 

She’s going to go to _Alexandria_ and _Luxor_ and _Crete_ and if she does well at her lessons she’ll be able to start Anglo-Norman and Old English and Old Icelandic and Old Norse as well, so she’ll finally be able to read the texts Scorpius keeps quoting from. The only Old English she knows so far is the word _sceadu-genga,_ which means _shadow-walker,_ and Scorpius is fond of making up stories about them to scare her, but they don’t scare her anymore - she’s six now, for Salazar’s sake. 

 

She minds her manners, so she curtseys properly as she thanks her grandfather, and Lucius Malfoy chuckles, lifting her up high in the air so they are face to face, as he says the words that indicate he is proud of her indeed. “Be happy, sweet cariad.”

 

Phoebe trills another laugh and burrows her head into her grandfather’s neck, and butterflies spring from her fingers as they always do when she is particularly happy. She has all but forgotten the woman when a snappish voice interjects with a scoff, “Everyone knows Linear A is undecipherable!”

 

Phoebe hides her snort in her grandfather’s shoulder because _obviously_ it has been deciphered because otherwise she wouldn’t be able to learn it. She can see the beginnings of an amused smirk tugging at her grandfather’s lips. Phoebe huffs and turns her head so she can see this woman properly. 

 

“It was deciphered by a witch called Sappho - perhaps you’ve heard of her? - some two thousand years ago.” Phoebe replies, matching the woman’s superior tone. “Everybody knows that - it’s in Arbuthnot Selwyn’s _Lives of the Ancient and Noble Houses,_ of course.”

 

“I pride myself on not reading such antiquated rubbish.”

 

“It’s clearly not antiquated rubbish if it’s factually correct.” Phoebe snarls back - how dare this woman enter her lands, uninvited, only to insult and condemn. 

 

“Draco clearly wasn’t lying when he said you lot were all a bunch of uptight idiots.” 

 

Phoebe blinks, disorientated. Draco is the man who fathered her, she knows, but she’s never met him because he ran off - _with this woman -_ when she was born. She clenches her little fists into her grandfather’s cloak. The lump in her stomach grows larger and stronger, gnawing, grabbing at her, and she moans in distress. 

 

The _paterfamilias_ is about to reply, but her brothers get there first.

 

“Talk to my sister like that again and I will eviscerate you.” Apollo growls, dismounting, his riding cloak rippling around his shoulders. 

 

Scorpius simply pushes his horse forwards until the Arabian is close enough to bite at the woman. Granger steps back hurriedly, face pale.  

 

“Get off my land.”

 

The voice is as icy as the coldest winter night frost, and Phoebe feels the Manor’s magic rearing up, responding, singing in her veins, at her fingertips if only she wishes it.

 

“And who might you be, kid?”

 

“Scorpius, Lord Malfoy, and I suggest you leave quickly, before _I make you._ You have insulted my sister and my grandfather the Duke, as well as my brother and myself.”

 

“Insult? I’ve only come to convey a message from Draco.”

 

Phoebe feels like she did the first time she fell from Felix; winded, and the blue sky swirling dizzyingly above her, and the chirping of the birds muffled. 

 

“Until _he_ comes to tell us himself, I won’t hear a word. Now _begone._ ” Scorpius replies tightly, and Phoebe feels the air around her vibrating, and a vicious surge of anger flows through her. Yes, why does he have to send an intermediary? More to the point, why does it have to be _her?_

 

“If you behave like this all the time, Scorpius, I’m not surprised your father _(she ignores Apollo’s furious “He’s not our father!”)_ came to me to escape it all.” She shrugs in that supremely self-confident way that some people have, and they’re the ones no words affect in any way. It seems Hermione Granger is completely at ease bulldozing her way through life. The woman turns her attention to Phoebe and the six year old is proudly determined not to let this - this -

 

“If you want to talk about behaviour, did you know that you’re dressed as a whore?” Phoebe snaps. 

 

Her grandfather and her brothers are too amused by Granger’s reaction, which is of the blank-eyed fish variety, to admonish her for her language. 

 

“A wh-whore?” Granger stutters. “How dare you, you little - ”

 

“You’ve got your hair down, which is the _height_ of vulgarity. But I suppose a witch like you wouldn’t touch _Magical Manners_ by Ophelia Fawley with a barge pole. Though what is it Dumbledore always said - _ignorance is no excuse?_ ” Apollo rejoins. 

 

“Such a book would have smoothed your transition into the wizarding world, I daresay.” The _paterfamilias_ comments evenly. “But know-it-alls are often blind in their arrogance, I have found.”

 

“I would much rather be considered an arrogant know it all than be known as the child so ugly her father refused to even look, much less hold her when she was born, choosing instead to spend the night in more pleasurable pursuits with his mistress.”

 

Phoebe distantly registers that this woman is talking about her, and the knot in her stomach explodes. She feels hot tears of humiliation and _(is that why father left? they weren’t enough - she wasn’t enough. She knows he has another family, with this woman, with adopted children - he wants them. But not her. Never her. Not Phoebe Morgana Persephone Malfoy.)_ and fury running down her cheeks and she screams and the woman flies backwards into the pond and howdareshe - onlylittle - _hatehatehate - why - how - don’t understand - painpainpainpainpain -_

 

The last thing she sees before everything goes dark is Edmund and the _paterfamilias_ leaning over her, their faces blurred - _why are their faces blurred -_ and she’s frightened because she might be a Malfoy but she’s only a little girl. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Phoebe, wake up.” 

 

“Open your eyes, sweet cariad.”

 

“Please, Phoebe, wake up, you have to wake up.” Her brothers. Apollo. Scorpius. 

 

Phoebe blinks open her Malfoy-silver eyes with difficulty. She feels tired - why is she so tired? but she recognises where she is; the canopy above the bed is hers, and her little hands tangle in familiar white silken sheets. All her family surround her; her brothers are curled protectively around her, Scorpius leaning against the headboard and Apollo at her feet, hands resting _(warm, home)_ on her legs. Mama is perching on the bed next to Phoebe’s head, stroking her cheek gently. The _paterfamilias_ sits at her side, holding Phoebe’s right hand between his own, and _materfamilias_ approaches with a tray of potions she realises she’s going to have to take. 

 

“What happened?” Phoebe asks, gaze darting from one family member to the next. 

 

“You just exhausted yourself, little cariad, that’s all.” _Pater_ replies gently, his voice thick with affection and relief.  

 

“Drink these,” _mater_ says, so Phoebe struggles to sit up and do as she’s told, and ends up drinking the foul concoctions leaning against Scorpius’s chest. As the potions kick in, she begins to feel better, more awake, and her headache is dissipating, so her mind begins to focus on the last thing she remembers.

 

The wave of pain and hatred that wells up is so great she feels the tears start to slide down her cheeks again, and she sobs into Scorpius’s shoulder. His arms come around her immediately. 

 

“No, don’t cry, little sister.” He rubs her back, murmuring a litany of soothing words. “It’s over now.”

 

Phoebe raises her head. “No it isn’t.” 

 

Curiosity burns within her; she must know - she has to know. “Did she - ” she falters, but takes a shuddering breath and continues - “did that woman, did she - was any of what she said true?” Phoebe bursts out. “That I - that _he_ didn’t even look at me once?”

 

She can see her family clearly have no idea how to respond, and her six year old mind connects the dots quickly. “So it’s true?” She whispers. “It’s my fault he ran off! Oh, Mama, I’m so sorry - ”

 

“No!” Astoria Malfoy replies sharply. “No - never think that. It was not you. _Never_ you.”

 

Scorpius sighs. “If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. I did find the photographs, Mama - ”

 

“Enough!” the _paterfamilias_ growls. “Enough! It was no-one’s fault except Hermione Granger’s and Draco’s. They knew what they were doing, and they knew the consequences.” 

 

“I hate them.” Phoebe snarls. “I hate them, and I will always hate them.”

 

“Oh, Phoebe,” Mama whispers. “Do not let them break your heart - and that goes for you as well, boys. My heart is enough of a price to pay.”

 

“Did you love him, Mama?” Apollo asks. 

 

Mama looks away. “Yes, Merlin help me, but I love him still.”

 

“Why?” Apollo continues. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

 

“No,” Astoria Malfoy replies, as patient as ever. “But love is not a question of deserving. I can no more stop loving him than I could count all the grains of sand on a beach.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“You will one day, Apollo.”

 

“No, I never want to,” is the mutinous reply. 

 

The adults laugh lightly and rise from Phoebe’s bed. “Rest now, little one,” the _materfamilias_ smiles, but Phoebe grabs her brothers’ wrists.

 

“Stay.”

 

“Of course.” “As if we’d do anything else.” Her brothers agree easily and the three of them curl up on the bed.

 

The three Malfoy children are still entwined when Lala comes to fetch them for dinner that evening.


End file.
